Rise of the Batman and the Laughing Detective
by KayosHybrid
Summary: When a ruthless criminal from the thought-to-be-dead underworld of Gotham city begins an unstoppable reign of terror, who can Gotham depend unwittingly on for hope? Alternate Earth fic. Warning: Violence and gore. In-progress.


Though I am writing two stories (A Little Push sequel and mature Bruce/Joker slash fic) this idea came to me quickly and was easy to write in one session. This was inspired by the newly released _Watchmen_ (which I've read) and cartoon _Batman: The Brave and the Bold_ which features a Earth-3 dedication episode. And of course written with my strange new outtake on things. Be warned, there will be explicit violence and gorey description; not for easily grossed-out. Enjoy ~

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Bruce Wayne was sick of this city. He walked the clean streets of upperclass Gotham with distaste, not bothering to mirror the friendly atmosphere about the people he passed, sneering at them as soon as his face was out of sight. His hands were stuffed deep, non-chalant and unimpressed, in the pockets of his leather jacket. He stalked the streets in casual wear not just for something trivial like comfort, but denial to the bullshitting snobs , bankers and bankers wives and children, and all the rest of this putridly swell city. Disgusted that he was born into their lives.

His parents had been individuals living in that world; full of charity and so called justice. His whole childhood he'd been chided, had numerous rules, regulations, timetables and warnings to further restrict his rather unsocial, boring young life. Constantly reminded of curfews, obscenely early ones. When he found a few rascal friends, patrolling police officers would constantly be sending them home or jump at the opportunity of splitting them up.

Gotham had finally taken itself from the brink of collapse, only to morph into an oppressive society of rules. Bruce had never had a job where Health and Safety wasn't the first topic brought up. Everyone was either too terrified of the old days, or were numb to the possibility of it. Gotham had sugarcoated itself, rounding off its sharp edges and washing out its crime. Even the Narrows had been flushed clean.

Bruce _loathed_ the city for it. That's really what the city was; numb. Terror bubbling quietly under the padded surfaces and plastic wrapping. He could smell it.

He waited at a crossing as the traffic lazy passed in both directions, deciding to actually wait so he could regard and sneer at a fellow citizen, imagining how easy it would be to rob him. But Bruce wasn't the mugging type; he was more of a corpse looter. Any uncovered treasures always seemed sweeter and wonderfully ill-gotten.

Judging by the grey creeping along his temples the citizen was entering middle-age, grasping a suitcase in his right hand – easy pickings. Bruce smiled openly at his back. Just feint-squaring up to the man would frighten him; the Mayor made it almost impossible for children to grow up into rogues...like Bruce. But Bruce was a special kind of rogue, a special kind of criminal. And so these idiots would break down just at the implication of violence.

He followed the man at a slight distance across and along the street, away from the mainroads. Having an affair perhaps? His suitcase looked suspiciously light for the crisp status of his suit. And he obviously hadn't suspected anything yet, or didn't show it, the daft old bastard. Bruce smiled cheerfully as each step pressed the cool knife blade against his thigh, tucked into his jeans and pressed to his flesh by his belt. His left hands fingers picked at the loose end of the roll of ducttape in his jacket pocket.

Closing the distance once he had picked out a good-looking alleyway, Bruce seized the man by his suited shoulders and threw him heavily into a dumpster. Bruce looked left and right to assess the noise hadn't alerted anyone, before stalking after him as the man bumbled and struggled to his feet.

Bruce shoved him by the throat into a wall deeper into the alley, flooring him again by a few swift punches in the gut, and a lazy kick in the side. He easily wrapped the mans wrists, ankles and mouth with ducttape, before standing and kicking him viciously in the side a few times. As he pulled out the knife excitedly from his jeans the man tried to scream, so Bruce stamped on his ribs twice to drown out the pathetic sound. He stamped once again just for pleasure, even more enthused when he felt a bone give under his boot and a wet crack was heard.

When he really got to work the man barely looked recognisable. Several teeth were missing, both eyes were swollen shut, blood trickled down from his forehead to join with the rivers from his mouth and nose. Bruce had lost count how many times he'd stabbed him, but he saw 7 or 8 contorted wounds where he'd twisted the knife. Both knees were broken inwards, and he was pretty sure he'd managed to fracture his hip, arms and a few ribs.

Bruce stood nearby, panting, feeling hot and pleasantly flustered. He'd noticed a few minutes ago that the guy had probably drowned on his own blood, especially if that rib he broke pierced a lung. Bruce hadn't even stopped to notice when the man's heaving chest had stilled, but he'd been finished soon after away. With a shrug and a backhand wipe of his forehead, Bruce sat nearby to his work to have a smoke. Ignoring the wet, red, blue, pink and purple mess beside him, he left the cigarette in his mouth to reach for the suitcase. He opened it and paperwork tumbled out. Hmm. He wasn't having an affair afterall. Bruce tossed aside the paper and briefcase, losing interest, regarding the dead man with his cigeratte pinched between two fingers and smoke flowing out of his nose.

"Too bad, you stupid, naive fuck." He chuckled, pushing himself to his feet, wiping the knife on an area of suit that wasn't soaked through before placing it back in his jeans. Still riding the small buzz from the spontanious murder, Bruce exited the alleyway with a swagger.

-=-

"Luke Major, 46, dead approximately 2-3 hours. 37 stab wounds to the chest, kneecaps broken in, severe bruising to all parts of the body—"

"_Jesus Christ_—" Someone muttered nearby.

"—i t looks like several of his ribs are broken too. His face is a mess. The forensic team aren't here to collect DNA yet, but it looks like there isn't going to be any finger prints. .." The officer relaying the report had to take a breather, already proved not to be the only one shocked by the brutality of the scene.

Lieutenant Gordon look down at the corpse of the late Luke Major and felt no pity, rather, worry; had this newbies team already sourced out the victim's name? Could the force be becoming so outrageously competant that they had already followed up relatives and the victim's identity?

"The team already have his full name?" He questioned offhandedly, face contructed into a grim expression.

"No, the attacker left his wallet. No cash taken, not even any valuables," the officer gestured towards the glint of gold peeking through the blood and ducttape, hinting at an expensive watch. "What kind of attacker would leave behind valuables?" He added in disbelief, probably not even expecting an answer.

"Hmm." Gordon replied, having the officer assume he was offering agreement.

Gordon wondered the same thingand he was curious. This was the first light of hope he'd seen in months, years, of the filth that once inhabited Gotham like a disease. Rebellion taken out of control, out of context, distorted and pretty darn wonderful. Indeed; what kind of robber left behind anything worth selling on? To avoid having stolen items followed up? Or was it pure maliciousness? Gordon prefered the latter. It was hard work, afterall, being one of the only dirty cops in an institution of controlling the individuals of the city.

Gordon took out a cigarette and lit it, glancing down and spotting tobacco ashes littered in a small splatter of blood. He didn't point it out. "We'll have to wait for Forensic to give the scene a once over. Till then there's nothing that can be done."

"Yeah, then we can find out after a post-mortem what the cause of death was."

"I'll give you one guess." Gordon replied, blowing smoke over his shoulder, gazing down at the mutilated excuse for a person.

"This could easily have been an elaborate accident; he could have fell into machinary, he could've fallen off the roof." The officer paused from an epiphany, and motioned some officers to check the roofs of the buildings flanking them.

"Of course he didn't fall off a fucking roof," Gordon put in irritably, halting any search of the roofs by respect of his experience and authority. Gordon knew the newbie was grasping at straws, to try and fool himself it wasn't what it was. Though he agreed Major looked like he'd gone through a faulty meat-grinder. But he simply refused to allow the team to have a moments reprieve from the realness of this incident. "The guy got stabbed 37 fucking times. And did he just _fall_ into a bunch of ducttape? Some crazy sonofabitch kicked his face in in broad daylight."

Gordon was known for his bluntness, and he was pleased when everyone shifted uncomfortably. It was true; it was mid-afternoon at most. Traffic was still heard from roads at a distance that weren't closed off by the alien composition of police tape, Gotham was still working fine, oblivious . Unfortunate but ironic, Gordon thought. He inhaled on his cigarette as he considered the scene thoughtfully, the only one truely undisturbed by it. He only dared hope this had a real criminal behind it.

The young officer seemed to have emboldened himself within the silence, determined and stony-faced, but looking put out as he glanced again at the body. "What is happening to this city?" The kid had a knack for rhetorical questions. If only; if only this was only the beginning.

Gordon glanced around, along the alleyway, up the walls and the two roofs slowly, searching for the one responsible. He wanted nothing to do with upholding justice on the culprit; he would have loved to buy him a drink. "Hmm....what _is_ happening to this city..." He repeated, looking around through his rectangular specs slyly for the once-reductant cancer of Gotham to answer.

-=-

Up on the rooftop, bathed in the shadow of the bulk that held the roofs exit under the descending sun, was a figure gazing down at the narrow space. He wore a dark green overcoat, the combination of the collar turned upwards and his matching fedora providing cover for his face. An earpiece provided a constant static voice, a police radio frequency reciever, as he listened to the GCPD'd broadcast.

He was familiar to the sight of people from far up; their comical heads melted in the middle of their shoulderspan, legs appearing in opposite unison as they walked. The scene was grim; police officers guarding and wandering around the crimson mess. Clueless, no doubt. Maybe even worried. Somewhere down there was evidence vital to capturing this unexpected culprit, but he wouldn't be able to get near it without being spotted. The force wasn't perfect, but he suspected that wasn't due to simple humanity; the effort and precision of the GCPD was being knifed by a corrupt member, a rat.

But with such a formidable police force, what kind of person would commit such a blatant disregard to morality? To humanity? It concerned him greatly. The report had been concerning enough, and the fact it was committed in the early afternoon was even moreso.

J was the only one that smelled a rat, and the only one out of the manipulative grasp of that rat, or collection of rats. He was off the radar, nimbly flitting from street to street and regarding the unsolved mysteries of the subterrianian disease that was Gotham's underbelly. It was like a swollen cockroach; J had to follow it into the damp, narrow streets and into Gotham's very cracks before stomping it into a gooey mess, shattered carapace showing the defeated clingy entrails from within. Much alike the late Luke Majors. You couldn't shout, regulate or scold a cockcroach to death, afterall. J had already tried that anyway.

No. J had decided this event was too strange, too unsavoury, to just sink beneath the depths or sweep itself under the proverbial carpet. This was important, J had to investigate properly; birds-eye view had very little perks. J was so set on going through the crime scene that he waited there until the sun finally dipped into the horizon, watching the forensic teams coming and going; eyeing the direction of the flash photography for future reference and gazing longingly at the evidence bags they stole away from the scene. When he saw signs of when forensic were preparing to recover the body, he leapt from the edge and swung his way quietly down the fire-escape of an adjacent alley. Briefly considering curiously how the incident might have played out if done in _this_ alley, J had to redirect his thoughts and hurry down the streets in search of an ally.

Once he'd apprehended a teenager trying to spraypaint an ugly, cheap looking signature with no recognisable sequence of letters, he'd offered not to issue him to the police station in return for a favour. Of course the startled adolescent had agreed. So has J renavigated his way towards the crime-scene he was rewarded with yelling snickers and pops and splats aimed at the police officers lining the tape on the road – J hoped he'd supplied them with a sufficent supply of waterbaloons.

J swept around the back of the alley, stepping around the various chalk-outlines from recovered evidence and numbered cards signifying important evidence at the scene until he hunkered down at the brutalised side of the late Mr. Major.

He flipped out a small orange notebook from a pocket for his overcoat and began to scrawl, head whipping up and down as he did a sweep of the area, wandering around and scrutinising things. Clarity while he worked, despite the loud distraction from the horde of teenagers down the road that had drawn away the officers, a productive peace of mind only broken by a growing sense of concern.

_This is a prelude_, J thought vaguely as he eyed the body that mildly disgusted him. _The beginning of a beginning. That makes two of us._

J stood straight as he prepared to leave, making sure he hadn't dropped anything, retrieving the bag of spraycans nearby that he'd confiscated. Suddenly an idea formed, and he glanced hurriedly at the mouth of the alleyway, ears turned towards the steadily dying commotion. Suddenly excited, J reached in for the cans and got to work leaving a simple message for the police.

His lack of artist skill did no hinder him as he set about painting an awkward image, filling it the middle with yellow and adding the finishing touches.

The commotion had ended and the police would return immediately. J stuffed the cans away, giving his work a brief glance and a giggle, before scampering off into the evening dark, leaving behind a wonky magnifying glass with a smiley face in the centre.

_I'm on the case._

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Hope you enjoyed it, and I would love it if you took the time to review!


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